


Morfis Nightshade

by Adaire (AlaeFatorum)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Ferdibert Week 2020 (Fire Emblem), I promise that no one dies in this fic, M/M, Poison Prompt, Post-Crimson Flower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:54:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25836850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlaeFatorum/pseuds/Adaire
Summary: Hubert and Ferdinand take dinner together, as they have for many years now. It is a perfectly typical dinner, until it isn’t.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 16
Kudos: 133





	Morfis Nightshade

“I think you are misunderstanding the importance of theatre on both a cultural and economic front—” Ferdinand von Aegir proclaimed over dinner, silverware flailing in the air as he gestured, as though the emphasis would lend his statement more credence.

This was how they had dinner most nights, nowadays, when they could spare the time from their busy lives. Sitting across from each other at a small, almost quaint table in the Prime Minister’s quarters, they enjoyed their meals and spoke of their days, among other things. Such as the importance of theatre, apparently.

“I am not _misunderstanding_ ,” Hubert defended, setting his fork down. “I simply think the entire operation would serve a greater purpose as a potential spy network and source of information—”

“That goes against everything the theatre is meant to stand for, Hubert!”

“Oh?” Hubert could not help but smirk over his plate of fish—a meal distinctly separate from Ferdinand’s roasted pheasant, because no matter how often the two of them insisted that they would eat whatever the chefs prepared, they continued to ask for their preferences on a weekly basis. 

”How so?” he continued, hoping to draw further commentary from the Prime Minister’s mouth. For as spirited as Ferdinand could become on most any topic, Hubert found there was no other way he preferred to spend his evenings. It was strangely peaceful, listening to him speak about his passions, and as such—despite the fact that he could concede to their argument now and be perfectly content—Hubert decided it was much more interesting to let Ferdinand continue. And Ferdinand rarely disappointed.

“The show—and, by extension, the enjoyment of the audience—must always come first,” Ferdinand asserted, and then did not elaborate—as if what he’d said were obvious—as he put another piece of roasted pheasant into his mouth. Only after he’d swallowed did he continue, “A spy would simply be unable to give a fitting performance!”

“I shouldn’t have to remind you that part of a spy’s job is to act,” Hubert said.

“That is just the problem! It is only _part_ of their job. A spy may only have a few dozen sets of eyes on them at once—if they are present at a meeting, or perhaps a ball—but an actor must captivate hundreds, perhaps even thousands at a time! If they do not commit all of themselves, their performance may not stand up to such scrutiny!”

Hubert wondered if Ferdinand knew how even full-time actors were often riddled with criticism regarding the slightest flaws in their performances. One of his spies, he was confident, would at least have the sense not to take such criticism to heart.

“Given how highly you speak of them, perhaps I need to replace my spies with professional actors, rather than the other way around.”

“Well, I’m certain it couldn’t hurt.”

Hubert chuckled at Ferdinand from across the table, even as the Prime Minister brought a handkerchief up to cover a slight cough. Hubert returned to his dinner, impaling a roasted potato on his fork.

“My apologies,” Ferdinand offered quickly, setting the handkerchief down on the table. His apparent need to apologize for something as simple as a cough was a habit, and one Hubert wasn’t sure why he bothered maintaining. Frankly, Hubert found much of Ferdinand’s insistence on proper manners perplexing—particularly as he seemed to adhere to some rules but not others. And Hubert certainly knew what to look for—he’d been forced to sit through lessons on etiquette for hours on end as a child, and he’d found them… dreadful, to put it kindly. As such, Hubert noted every instance where Ferdinand would rest his elbows on tables as he cut at his food, or speak with his hands when impassioned, or tilt his chair back because he enjoyed how it balanced. Beyond the occasional warning that one of these days he was certain to topple over in his seat, Hubert did not bring them up.

Clearing his throat, Ferdinand reached for his tea and sipped. Hubert wasn’t sure how he managed to drink a hot beverage with a meal that was already warm, but this was another argument he’d long ago given up on winning.

“I think my allergies may be acting up,” Ferdinand said, flashing Hubert a rather sheepish smile that could’ve taken his breath away if he had not tried to build up some amount of tolerance to Ferdinand’s charms over the years. Not because he wasn’t positively enamored with the man—far from it—but because he feared he’d never get any work done again if he allowed Ferdinand to occupy _every_ section of his thoughts.

“I went riding to inspect some of the orchards today, and I fear the pollen may have stuck to me, as it were. I find myself with a bit of a headache,” Ferdinand continued, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt before returning to his food. “Is it somewhat warm in here to you?”

“If you start sneezing over our dinner, I may not forgive you,” Hubert warned, though he still wore a smile on his face. “And… somewhat. We forgot to draw the curtains before we left this morning, and the sun overheated the room, I’m afraid.”

There was a slight pause in their conversation as they both ate. Hubert spoke again, after a time. “How are the orchards looking?”

Ferdinand cleared his throat once more before speaking, “Positively splendid! Though I must confess it was perhaps less of a formal inspection and more of a… personal one.”

Hubert feigned shock. “The Prime Minister, using his position to receive exclusive permission to ride privately through some of Adrestia’s finest orchards? I may have no choice but to report you to the Emperor for this, you know,” he warned, his tone as serious as this damning abuse of power deserved.

And Ferdinand laughed, the sound like birdsong. He brought a hand up to cover his mouth, ever the gentleman, even as the laugh shifted to another cough.

“Truly, what blatant acts of corruption will we discover next?” Hubert continued. “That the Prime Minister has been charging Adrestia’s loyal taxpayers for the ink he uses to pen his personal correspondence? That he promises the opera house favors in return for free tickets?”

Hubert glanced up from his plate then, hoping to meet those dazzling copper eyes and take in the smile on Ferdinand’s lips.

Except the Prime Minister hadn’t stopped coughing.

Hubert’s brows knit together. “... Ferdinand?”

The handkerchief had been ignored this time; the Prime Minister was coughing violently into his arm. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. Ferdinand pulled his hand back from his mouth, and it came back speckled with blood. The shock on his face was clear.

This was wrong. Something was wrong. _“Ferdinand.”_

“I’m… I’m sorry, Hubert,” Ferdinand choked out, and the words sounded _wrong._ His eyes were unfocused despite how quickly he was blinking, and his breaths grew both shallower and shorter with every passing second. He brought a hand to his throat, even as the other pushed on the table in a shaky attempt to stand. “I don’t—I don’t think I’m... well.”

He sounded as though he were being strangled.

Hubert caught him as he fell, already on his feet, the motion so swift and decisive that it knocked the chair back entirely. Ferdinand’s head connected with the area around his collarbone, his hands now gripping onto Hubert’s arms.

“H-Hubert—”

“Just breathe.”

As quickly as he could while still being careful, Hubert lowered Ferdinand to the floor. He pulled his gloves off, pressing thin, discolored fingers onto the Prime Minister’s pulse point.

Hubert’s hands were shaking.

Damn him, and damn his heart—Hubert should have been _prepared_ for this. A calm and collected approach here would carry him much farther than whatever this panic—this _fear_ —that had taken over his body was. It had no place here, had no place _anywhere_ as far as Hubert was concerned, and Ferdinand would have a much greater chance of surviving if Hubert could just pull himself away from the fact that the man he loved was dying.

Ferdinand’s pulse was slow—so much slower than it should have been. Hubert took in a steadying breath.

Symptoms, source, method of ingestion. Determine the poison, find the cure, and Ferdinand will live.

Coughing up blood, slow breathing, slower pulse, dilated pupils. What else had he said? Ferdinand had given him all the signs, and he had ignored them, dismissed them. If he died now, it would be because of Hubert’s own carelessness, because he knew the signs of poisoning by heart—had watched these same signs play out countless times before. And yet he had presumed them both _safe_ , taking dinner together in their suite. And yet only Ferdinand had been targeted. If he died now, it was Hubert’s fault. He couldn’t—

He shook his head. Headache—Ferdinand had mentioned a headache. And heightened body temperature, he noted, seeing the way sweat had begun to form on his brow. This was progress; already the list of possibilities was narrowing.

“Hu..bert,” Ferdinand tried again, his hand slowly curling around Hubert’s wrist. “I can’t—I can’t feel you.”

_Loss of sensation._

Morfis Nightshade.

Hubert muttered it allowed, and Ferdinand’s eyes widened slightly, even as he began to cough again. It was a magically altered variation of the plant, and quick-acting. It introduced the lovely feature of full-blown paralysis with long-term exposure, and it caused its victims to cough up blood.

Hubert also knew of an antidote.

“Ferdinand,” he began, trying to work as quickly as possible. “Where do you keep—”

“C-cabinet. Top shelf.”

Hubert flung the doors open and began digging, shoving various cannisters of tea and coffee aside until he found a small wooden box. If Ferdinand had not been on the ground, mere moments away from death, Hubert might have felt a twinge of pride at the fact the man had taken some of his concerns over potential assassinations to heart. He flipped the lid of the box open, looking for the vial that would counteract the poison running through Ferdinand’s body.

“They will think... you did it,” Ferdinand’s voice croaked from his position on the floor, a mockery of its usual warm tones. Hubert spared a brief glance at him, confused at why, of all things, _this_ was at the forefront of Ferdinand’s mind. It must have been the delirium, because his golden eyes were wide with concern at this apparent revelation—as if the potential for _rumor_ was a bigger worry than the fact that his heart was only minutes away from never beating again.

“That doesn’t matter right now, Ferdinand,” Hubert said. He was trying to be… reassuring, perhaps, as he found what he was looking for. He just wanted Ferdinand to keep breathing, and every word out of his mouth was oxygen that did not reach his lungs.

“It—it _does_ , they need to know—” He stopped, presumably because he had run out of air. “I need—I need paper, and a… pen—”

“Ferdinand _, please._ ”

Hubert held the small, carefully labelled bottle in one hand and a syringe in the other. He stepped back towards Ferdinand, but stopped at the table. Had it been the tea? The pheasant? He had to know, to apply to correct dosage—if he got it wrong, he may as well have been stabbing Ferdinand in the heart himself. Carefully, he dipped a finger in the tea.

“It’s not… the tea,” Ferdinand whispered hoarsely.

“How do you know?”

“Already… had some. Earlier.”

Morfis Nightshade acted quickly, not to mention had a slightly sweet taste—Ferdinand would have noticed it in his tea. The pheasant, then. He filled the syringe.

Kneeling beside the Prime Minister, whose eyes had fluttered shut, he pressed the tip of the needle into his arm.

And then he leaned forward, pressing a desperate kiss to Ferdinand’s lips, tasting blood and hints of sweetness. The concentration was far too low to pose any danger to Hubert, who had long ago forced himself to build some amount of tolerance to such things.

“Please, do not leave me,” he whispered.

Hubert screamed for the guards then, demanding they find a healer and ordering the lockdown of the palace—it seemed likely the would-be assassin was a cook, or perhaps a servant. He watched them leave, scrambling to obey his orders. Hubert would be with them, normally, but he would not leave Ferdinand here alone. Not for a second. 

Even if the culprit escaped, it would not matter. Hubert would catch them eventually, and he would punish them accordingly.

He pulled Ferdinand into his lap as he waited, brushed his fingers through his hair, held a hand to his pulse to make sure he didn’t slip away in his arms. There was a question running through his mind, one he knew he shouldn’t have had to ask, but he couldn’t force it from his mind.

Who would want to kill Ferdinand?

Bright, brilliant, beautiful Ferdinand, who dedicated all of himself to the wellbeing of the people he governed. Who conducted diplomacy, both foreign and domestic, and did everything he could to maintain their careful peace. Who negotiated trade deals to benefit the common man, who wanted every child in Fódlan to receive an education, who wanted the arts to flourish. It felt like he was everything Hubert was not—kind, and caring, and possessing the most incredible smile Hubert had ever seen. There was no universe where Ferdinand von Aegir deserved to die while Hubert von Vestra yet lived.

Of course, the answer to this question was obvious. The universe was not fair, and there were any number of people across Fódlan were not satisfied with the government—even with the War of the Crimson Flower many years won, it had left lasting effects that put them all at risk. It could have been a Faerghan rebel, or a disgruntled soldier, or a foreign assassin. Flames, it could have been a disgraced noble, someone interested in an Aegir inheritance that no longer existed.

Still, Hubert had thought that most of this blame, this discontent, rested on the shoulders of himself and the Emperor. He had not expected someone to target only Ferdinand, to try and kill him in his own quarters on a perfectly typical summer day while he sat with Hubert and had _dinner_. These assumptions were a mistake Hubert would not repeat, assuming he was given the chance. Assuming Ferdinand survived.

No, Ferdinand would survive. He was strong, and had lived through far worse attempts to kill him than this, and Hubert had acted quickly enough. And while he knew the universe did not care, as cold and unflinching as he was when he killed, he selfishly hoped that Ferdinand would survive solely because Hubert needed him to.

Trust was not something that came easily to him, and yet it was all he had, existing in the tenuous moments between life and death. His grip tightened around Ferdinand’s shoulders and he pulled him ever closer, appealing to the unyielding nature of Ferdinand’s being, willing that trust into reality. He whispered affirmations into his ear, made promises and declarations he would never dare take back. Hubert trusted Ferdinand von Aegir with a great many things, from the future of Fódlan to the fragile state of his own heart, and he would trust him now, until the healers arrived and every day after. 

**Author's Note:**

> It's 11 PM where I am, so it's still technically Day 2 of Ferdibert Week! Have a short piece for the prompts Poison and Fear that I wrote today instead of doing the work that I should have.
> 
> As always, a huge thank you to everyone who takes the time to read my work, it really means the world to me 💜
> 
> If you're interested in even more Ferdibert, I'm on twitter [@celestial_tart!](https://twitter.com/celestial_tart) It's pretty much all I retweet these days, honestly.


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